


The Yellow Socks

by FervidAsAFlame



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War I, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Typical WWI Battle/Violence, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29963196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FervidAsAFlame/pseuds/FervidAsAFlame
Summary: “You’re really going to wear them?” Arthur asked, looking up from the letter with a frown.“‘Course I am,” Merlin said, stripping one damp grey sock from his foot and shoving it into his worn leather rucksack. “I never turn down fresh socks. Besides, they’re almost golden -- maybe they’ll be lucky.”Arthur snorted. “More likely they’ll be the target for a sniper,” he said absentmindedly, his gaze lingering on Merlin’s pale instep.**The World War I Merthur AUno oneTristan asked for.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 66
Collections: Finish that Fic Merlin!





	The Yellow Socks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwanFloatieKnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwanFloatieKnight/gifts).



> Happiest of birthdays to my dear dear friend [Tristan(™)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swanfloatieknight/)! I’m sorry that this gift is so terribly late (so late that you’re into a whole other fandom by now lmao) but I hope that you will enjoy it nonetheless! I love you! <3 
> 
> Thank you so much to [Divine529](https://archiveofourown.org/users/divine529/) for lending your expertise in both commas and WWI to beta this fic! I appreciate you so much <3 Any remaining historical inaccuracies are my own. 
> 
> It was so long ago that you probably barely remember, but I really have to thank everyone in the [Merlin Fic Book Club Discord Server](https://discord.gg/3zTdNDYpba) who helped me brainstorm when I was like like “my bestie wants a WWI fic for his birthday, help” Everyone’s ideas were very inspiring and so instrumental to creating this fic — thank you all so much!

“What in the hell is that?” Arthur asked, crouching down beside Merlin in the trench. The dirt of the wall was cool against his back. 

“Socks,” Merlin replied distractedly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes, bright despite the bags underneath them and the dirt smearing his face, were darting back and forth across the page. The sight of Hunith’s careful handwriting made something unnamable twist in Arthur’s gut. He knew that Merlin would pass the letter to him as soon as he had finished reading, but it didn’t make the ache for a letter from his own mother any less. 

“Why are they so .... yellow?” Arthur asked, shifting slightly closer so that his shoulder was pressed against Merlin’s. 

Merlin looked up at him with a grin that made Arthur’s heart stutter-skip. 

“She says she accidentally used the wrong dye and turned the wool yellow — she was too embarrassed to send them to the Red Cross, so now they’re mine,” he said, pressing the pages into Arthur’s hand and holding up the socks for inspection. The ugly mustard yellow looked almost cheerful in the trench, where the dirt and smoke and matching uniforms and pale faces seemed to smudge the colour out of everything. Merlin made a satisfied sound and began to unwrap his puttees and unlace his boots. 

“You’re really going to wear them?” Arthur asked, looking up from the letter with a frown. 

“‘Course I am,” Merlin said, stripping one damp grey sock from his foot and shoving it into his worn leather rucksack. “I never turn down fresh socks. Besides, they’re almost golden -- maybe they’ll be lucky.”

Arthur snorted. “More likely they’ll be the target for a sniper,” he said absentmindedly, his gaze lingering on Merlin’s pale instep. The sight of Merlin’s bare foot was so familiar that a wave of nostalgia swept over him. It brought to mind running barefoot through the forest when they were children playing at knights, swimming in the river on hot summer days, curling together in one bed pressed together for warmth the night after Arthur’s mother had died. Merlin’s body felt as familiar to him as home -- _was_ home, or as close as he could get out here in the middle of a province he couldn’t even pronounce. 

“Now don’t be jealous,” Merlin chided, pulling the sock over his foot and holding it out to admire. “I’m sure she’ll send you a pair too if you ask.” 

Arthur just shook his head as Merlin laced his boot back up, re-wound the puttee, then started the process over on the other foot. He shifted to balance his weight against Arthur while he tugged, once again bringing their shoulders into contact. Arthur watched, feeling the urge to protect Merlin during this moment of vulnerability when he only wore one boot. 

Not that the instinct was anything new. 

Merlin wasn’t even supposed to be here, as far as Arthur and Dr. Gaius back home were concerned. He had suffered from asthma as a child and though he had begun to outgrow it in recent years, the doctor had still ruled him unfit for service. Merlin’s thin frame had shook with barely repressed rage as the old man had explained to him that he would be especially susceptible to the gasses being deployed by the Germans in their attacks. Despite Merlin’s vociferous protests, Dr. Gaius wouldn’t give him clearance to volunteer with the other boys from their village. 

“The war will only last a month or two at most,” Arthur had tried to comfort him. “I’ll be home by Christmas.” But Merlin only grew more sullen in the days leading up to Arthur’s departure. Hunith had shown up at the train station alone and apologetic.

“He’s run off and I can’t find him anywhere,” she said, squeezing Arthur’s hand. “You know how he is.”

Although Arthur was disappointed not to see Merlin before heading out to join his battalion, he was secretly pleased that Merlin would be staying at home where he would be completely safe. 

Of course, he should have known better. 

“Pendragon,” the Lieutenant barked one morning as Arthur was gathering his things in preparation of being shipped out to the trenches. “Got a new boy here -- says he’s from your neck of the woods, so he’ll be joining your battalion. You’ll show him to the barracks, set him up in the tent with Greene.” 

“Yes, sir,” Arthur said with a salute. He looked past the man curiously, wondering who the newcomer could be, as he’d already seen all the other lads from home assided to troops. From behind the Lieutenant stepped Merlin, chin high and jaw clenched against his helmet’s chinstrap. His eyes had snapped at Arthur defiantly, daring him to comment. 

Arthur had stayed mad at Merlin for nearly a week, refusing to sit next to him at meals or meet his eyes. But after their first day of battle in the trenches, when Arthur was numb with shock, gunfire echoing in his ears, mind replaying the horrific scenes he’d witnessed, he’d clung to Merlin in the dark and and stuttered close to his ear that he was glad he was there. 

Since then, he’d come to rely on Merlin being around. And for all Arthur thought he’d be the one constantly saving Merlin’s arse, somehow they’d managed to watch out for each other in nearly equal measure so far. 

But in this moment, at least, it seemed that Merlin didn’t need any protection. While he quickly laced up his boot and carefully wound the puttees, the fields stayed quiet. Arthur squinted up into the dusty sky and supposed it was tea time back home. He closed his eyes and pictured Hunith bustling around her cosy kitchen, the rich smell of her cooking curling through the small house. She’d be setting herself down at the table alone, probably wondering whether Merlin had even gotten the socks, whether he was even still alive, watching out the window to be sure no messenger was coming with a telegram. 

“Arthur?” 

The poorly concealed worry in Merlin’s voice told Arthur that it wasn’t the first time Merlin had said his name, and he smiled sheepishly. Since they’d come to the trenches, Arthur sometimes indulged in moments of drifting into his own brain where it was safe. Lately, he’d found it harder and harder to snap out of them. 

“Stay with me, alright?” Merlin said with forced lightness. He stood up and straightened his puttees over his boots, then offered Arthur a hand up. 

“Always,” Arthur said, pleased that Merlin looked less worried as pink crept up his cheeks. “Well? How do they fit?” 

“Perfectly,” Merlin said, marching showily across the trench and back. Arthur just laughed and shook his head. 

“Let’s see if we can find anything to eat today,” Arthur said, setting off down the trench with Merlin close behind him. 

“If not, I still have a bit of bread left from last night,” Merlin offered, adjusting the strap on his rucksack. 

Arthur’s stomach gurgled at the thought of extra rations, and he fought to keep his mind from wandering back to where Hunith might be taking a fresh loaf of bread from the oven. 

“Nah,” he said, smiling over his shoulder at Merlin. “I’m not that hungry, you keep it.” 

They did manage to find a bit of watery broth with some fatty meat, the origins of which Arthur tried not to think about. He carefully ate two-thirds of his bowl, then claimed he was full, tipping the rest into Merlin’s. Merlin gave him a wary look that said he knew exactly what Arthur was doing, but he was too hungry to protest. Merlin had always been thin and gangly, but the war had made him nearly gaunt.

As night fell, the quiet persisted. Occasionally, Arthur could hear what sounded like mortar blast in the distance, but he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t imagining it. When commanding officers began to drink and play cards in the bend of the trench, Merlin and Arthur squeezed into a dugout together to try to get some sleep. It was a tight fit, but one they were used to by now. As soon as they were settled, Arthur tucked his head shamelessly under Merlin’s chin, nudging his arms wordlessly until Merlin draped one arm around him. Arthur pressed his face into Merlin’s warm neck, breathing in the scent of home that even weeks without a proper bath couldn’t erase from his skin.

They never spoke about the thing that was happening between them, for which Arthur was grateful -- he couldn’t imagine what words he’d put to it even if he could. He knew it was possible that it was simply a response to the long stretches of waiting for things to be blown up that were occasionally interrupted by brief bouts of things _actually_ being blown up. But in either case, he was thankful that Merlin allowed it, because Arthur thought that being able to wrap himself up in Merlin’s body was the only thing keeping him sane most of the time. 

He felt Merlin’s cheek press against the crown of his head, and tried not to imagine being here without him. 

*

As the weeks wore on, Merlin’s socks became a bit of a joke among the regiment, the other boys calling him “Goldisocks” and demanding he show them his ankles on any given day to see if he was wearing them. Merlin took it all with his typical self-deprecating humor and continued to keep the socks in rotation with the drab brown and grey ones. 

“I think it actually keeps their spirits up,” Merlin said close to Arthur’s ear one evening. 

They were in the dugout again on another relatively quiet night, Merlin taking advantage of the shred of privacy to trail his fingers through Arthur’s hair. Arthur wondered if he should stop him, if anyone would see, but it felt too good to care. 

“I think _you_ keep their spirits up,” Arthur murmured back. It had been storming all day, the relentless patter of raindrops sounding almost peaceful until interrupted by distant gunfire. There was mud everywhere and even in the relative dryness of the dugout, Arthur could feel the cold squelching of the mud beneath his boots and smell the earthy damp scent all around him. He longed for a long, hot bath. Instead the mud, which had been impossible to avoid as their squadron had tramped back and forth through the trenches, was drying on his skin and in his hair. 

As if he could hear his thoughts, Merlin left off stroking Arthur’s hair for a moment and brought the rough cuff of his sleeve up to wipe gently at a dried spot of mud on Arthur’s cheek. Arthur closed his eyes and leaned into it. When Merlin’s touch came again, it was in the form of his thumb tracing softly across Arthur’s cheekbone. Arthur’s eyes flew open in surprise at the intimacy. Merlin was looking at him with such fondness that Arthur found he couldn’t hold his gaze for long. 

“Are you cold?” Merlin whispered, close enough that Arthur could feel the puff of breath when he spoke. 

“‘M alright,” Arthur said gruffly, even as he shifted closer to Merlin’s body heat. The rain picked up, and for a second it was as though he and Merlin had created a magical bubble where they were safe and alone. Arthur wondered what would happen if he just leaned in and — 

Outside, there was the tell-tale whistling of an incoming grenade followed by an earth-rumbling explosion. There was enough light from the blast to see Merlin’s shocked face cast in stark relief, inches from his. 

“Shit, shit,” Arthur cursed, wriggling out of the dugout in a flash and reaching for his rifle. 

“Come on lads,” Greene shouted cheerfully. “Rise and shine! Time to kill some Germans. Got your lucky socks, Merlin? Yeah? Ah, good then — nothing to fear!” 

*

“It’s yellow cowardly though?” 

“What?” Merlin asked absently, not looking up from his meal.

Mordred, the youngest member of their regiment, rolled onto his stomach and stared at him with his unnervingly blue eyes. 

“Isn’t yellow cowardly?” he repeated, tipping his head at the yellow socks currently peeking out from beneath Merlin’s khaki trousers as he sat cross-legged beside Arthur. This time it was their regiment moving closer to the fighting to the east. The men had been marching all day, but had stopped in a meadow at the edge of a wooded area to eat. “Greene always calls them lucky, but it makes me think of being yellow-bellied.”

“What are you trying to say?” Arthur snapped. He was exhausted and didn’t even try to hide the sharpness in his voice. 

Mordred shrugged and settled his rucksack under his head. 

“Nothing. Just making an observation.” 

Arthur bristled, fists clenched and sat up straighter. “Yeah,” he said, leaning closer to where the man’s body was sprawled prone in the dirt. “Well how about we—”

“Arthur,” Merlin’s voice sounded far away, but his hand to Arthur’s forearm burned through the haze of irritation. Arthur flushed with embarrassment at getting so riled over something so stupid — Merlin was just as brave, if not more so, than the rest of the regiment, and everyone knew it. Even Mordred, whose gaze was now gaze fixed on Merlin’s hand on Arthur’s arm. A lazy, knowing smirk stretched across his face.

Arthur’s heart pounded with adrenaline, same as if he were in battle. If anyone found out … if Merlin were moved to a different regiment …

He shrugged Merlin’s hand off of him and stabbed his spoon violently into the bowl of mush in his hands. He refused to look up lest he meet Mordred’s smug expression or Merlin’s worried one. A silence hung over the group, as nearby ears that had perked during the conflict waited to see how it would play out. 

“Well, Mordred,” Merlin said at length. “I guess that explains why you always wear white underpants.” 

Arthur’s glance at Mordred found him looking as confused as Arthur felt. 

“What’ve my pants — How does — what are you talking about?” Mordred sputtered, pushing himself up into a sitting position. 

“You know,” Merlin said with faux innocence. “In case you ever need to surrender.” 

There was a moment of silence. 

Then Greene roared with laughter and the rest of the nearby lads followed suit. Mordred’s face went red and he scrambled to his feet, swinging his rucksack onto his back and huffing to the other end of the field where the rest of the regiment was looking on with interest. When Arthur turned to Merlin, he wasn’t laughing, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he stirred his soup again and lifted a spoonful to his mouth. When he noticed Arthur watching, he gave him a wink that flooded Arthur’s insides with warmth. 

*

After months of cold and persistent rain came a beautiful April day. The sun had finally come out and despite the war raging on with no sign of ending, spring seemed to be blossoming all around them.

Late winter had brought a nasty bout of trench fever, which had swept mercilessly through much of the regiment. By some blessing Merlin, who had always been so sickly in their youth, had been spared the disease. It had felt odd for Arthur to be on the receiving end of Merlin’s ministrations instead of the other way around, but he was pitifully grateful for the care. Merlin had stayed up seemingly around the clock to coax fresh water down Arthur’s throat and cajole him into eating whatever scraps he had managed. Every time he opened his eyes from another terrifying fever dream, Merlin had been there wiping his brow with a cool cloth and murmuring soothing words to him. When the fever broke on the fifth day, Merlin had nearly wept with relief. 

By now Arthur had mostly recovered, but ever since the illness he’d never felt quite warm enough unless he was pressed to Merlin’s side. Today, however, he took off his helmet and blinked up into the warm sun with a grateful smile. 

“Christ, that feels good,” he said, throwing his arms back and bearing his chest to the sky. 

“Yeah, you say that now,” said Greene from where he was cleaning his rifle next to Arthur, a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. “But in a couple month’s time you’re bollocks will be sweatier than a —”

Arthur never got to find out what his bollocks would be sweatier than, because they all froze when they heard the tell-tale whistle of a grenade. 

“Arthur, your helmet!” Merlin cried from where he was readying his rifle further down the trench. His voice was enough to unstick Arthur, and he slammed the helmet on and crouched down just as the blast came.

“Fuck,” Greene cursed, hunching down beside the tench’s earthen wall. He slammed the parts of his rifle back together then flicked the lit end of his cigarette out. “These fucking bastards.”

Grenades were raining in at regular intervals now, their whistling never failing to fill Arthur’s stomach with dread. He could hear commanding officers shouting, alternating between telling their troops to move in, and shouting over the radios. In what felt like a blink, men swarmed and the sounds of rapidfire gunshot echoed down the trench. In a panic, Arthur tried to struggle toward where Merlin had been standing, but the incoming troops pushed him further down the trench. Then a German soldier was vaulting over the fence and he forgot everything but his training. 

Afterward, Arthur never knew how he survived — whether it was down to skill, or dumb luck, or something else. He felt as though there was another Arthur living inside him, and as soon as the fighting began, his mind became a roaring static, blissfully empty but for the which only the occasional sound breaking through — a frenetic whistle blowing, shouts of the other men, screams of pain, the blasts, the grenades, and always, always the gunfire. In the space, he didn’t think about what was happening around him, but only on doing what he was there to do — loading his rifle, firing until it was empty, then loading it again. 

He knew he couldn’t afford to think of what happened after the fighting — when they’d retrieve and stack up their dead, tend to their wounded, silently pass around a bottle. When he’d curl up on himself and shake until Merlin pressed their shoulders together. If he thought of any of that, he’d be a dead man. So he kept his mind blissfully blank, and fought. 

He was dimly aware of Greene beside him, and of a flurry of activity as several soldiers scrambled up the trench and over into no man’s land to grapple with the Germans who were storming their trench. Today they would pay for their boldness in blood, and Arthur angled himself away so he didn’t have to see the limp way that they fell lifeless into the mud. 

Suddenly, there was another wave of grey uniforms approaching, and Arthur knew that it was his turn to climb into the more vulnerable space above the trench. The boys looked barely older than he was, and for a moment a thought broke through Arthur's mental haze: if he had been born in Germany instead of England, he’d be wearing a grey wool uniform as well, instead of his khakis. The thought distracted Arthur just long enough for one of the boys to get too close. A burst of light kaleidoscoped across his eye and pain bloomed immediately after. He could hear Greene curse and scuffle with the soldier beside him, but Arthur sucked in a sharp breath that had nothing to do with the pain. 

The world seemed to dim abruptly except where it was focused on a body in the distance. The soldier was lying in the limply akimbo way that Arthur knew by now meant death. One leg was at an unnatural angle and the trousers were hitched up, puttees loosened just enough to reveal a flash of yellow. 

_Merlin._

A ringing rose in his ears, first distorting the sounds of battle, then swallowing them. Arthur could hear nothing but the sound of his own heart beating in his ear drums and his harsh breaths. 

His eyes started at the thin strip of unmistakably yellow wool and tried to comprehend. Bile rose in his throat. Merlin was — 

“ARTHUR,” screamed a voice beside him, clearly not for the first time. Arthur’s head snapped to the side just in time to see Greene manage to kick out from the hold the German soldier had on him. 

Suddenly, the world came rushing back at Arthur at full speed. The familiar numb of battle gave way to a blinding white rage that rushed into Arthur with a startling ferocity. 

Arthur gave an inhuman growl and launched himself at the soldier, stabbing the man’s leg with his bayonet before shooting him in the face. He whirled and caught the second man in the solar plexus with his elbow hard enough to knock him to the soft earth. Arthur kicked as hard as he could at the man’s back before burying a bullet in his skull.

Immediate threat handled, Arthur turned and started toward Merlin’s body only to be stopped by a firm hand on his elbow. 

“We’ve got to get down,” Greene shouted over the echoing of gunshot all around them. 

“It’s Merlin,” Arthur snarled at him. The set of Greene’s jaw told Arthur that he had already seen. Greene shook his head. 

“After,” he gritted out, pushing Arthur down and swearing as another blast went off nearby. 

Arthur let himself be dragged back to cover, but once he was back in the trench, he started shaking. Greene swore again, stood to fire several rounds, then crouched down to press a flask into Arthur’s hand. 

“Drink up, Princess,” his voice was hard. “You can’t go to pieces on me now — _fuck_!” 

Another explosion came, this time even closer. 

“We’ve gotta move — drink that and then come on.” 

Arthur did as he was told, somehow managing the flask despite his shaking hands. The cheap whiskey burned down his throat, but when he passed the flask back to Greene he felt a bit more tethered to reality.

As he followed Greene further down the trench, Arthur pushed the image of Merlin lying lifeless in the mud from his mind and let the haze of the battle come over him again. 

The fighting seemed to go on and on. It reminded Arthur of a dream with no beginning and seemingly no end, but slowly, the tumult started to retreat. Like all the battles that had come before it, the dust eventually settled. They had held their bit of ground for now. 

The soldiers remaining began the after-battle routine of tending to the wounded, cleaning their weapons, and checking in with their commanding officers. Arthur went through the motions, but while Greene was walking around and slapping the backs of fellow soldiers still in one piece, he could only think of the one who hadn’t. 

The lump in his throat threatened to choke him. Slowly, he pressed his back against the trench’s wall and sank to the ground, pulling his helmet from his head and using it to shield his face. He took a shaky breath and then another, hating that every breath he took was one that Merlin couldn’t. He knew that this was part of war, had certainly seen more than his share of deaths — many far worse than Merlin’s had been. But … how was he meant to go on now? What could there possibly be for him after all this, if it wasn’t for Merlin? 

Before he could lose himself completely, a heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder. Arthur startled, then looked up. Greene’s usually merry eyes were watching him somberly. 

“Let’s get our boy, eh?” he said, voice rough. Arthur jerked a nod, then followed Greene down the trench to where the attack had first come. His body felt leaden and heavy, each step as though he was fighting his way through cold water. 

He knew it was cowardly, but he was grateful all the same when Greene scrambled up the trench without hesitating and approached Merlin’s body first. Arthur felt the rushing in his ears again — for a moment he had a vision of Hunith opening the door to find the grim face of a telegram messenger. Would she cry? Scream? Faint? 

Arthur felt as though he might do all three as Greene crouched beside the body and touched Merlin’s still shoulder gently. From this close, Arthur could see that a grenade had blown through most of his torso, and he felt his hands begin to shake again. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bring himself to watch as Greene rolled the body over. Then, he heard Greene’s sharp intake of breath. 

“Arthur,” Greene said, voice shaky. “Look.” 

Arthur took a deep breath. He wanted to hold on tight to these last few seconds when he could remember Merlin as he was, and not how the war had left him. But when Greene said his name again, he opened his eyes and the whole world seemed to swoop beneath his feet.

“It isn’t him,” Greene said in a strangled voice, as if that wasn’t immediately clear to Arthur. Arthur ran a step toward the body and crouched down to look into the lifeless face of Robert Mordred. He blinked, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him. But even after shutting his eyes for a moment and opening them, the sight was the same. It was Mordred. Not Merlin. Mordred. 

By the time Arthur’s brain caught up to what was happening, Greene was already back at the trench.

“Where’s Emrys?” he demanded of a soldier restacking a part of the wall that had been knocked down in battle. 

“Dunno,” the boy said with a shrug. “We all lit off that way when the bastards started coming in.”

In a flash, Arthur had leapt back into the trench and was tearing the way that the lad had gestured. He was aware that he looked like a crazy man, but he could hear Gwaine’s footsteps behind him as he wove their way around the dead and dying, pushing around clusters of soldiers, scanning faces for the one dearest to him. 

“EMRYS!” Greene bellowed, and up ahead Arthur saw a face turn up. He only had a moment to register the confusion on Merlin’s face before Arthur crashed into him, embracing him like a lover, for the moment not caring who saw. 

“Arthur?” Merlin asked, clearly surprised, but wrapping his arms around Arthur all the same. Arthur buried his neck and breathed in the scent of home. 

“Did you loan your socks to Mordred?” Gwaine demanded.. 

“What? Well, yes I did make him take them as a bit of a joke when he asked for a pair but — oh. Oh shit. Is he?” Merlin’s arms squeezed even tighter around Arthur.

“Yeah,” Gwaine responded, and Arthur could feel him drape an arm over Merlin’s shoulder for an affectionate squeeze before retreating. Arthur didn’t move, but Merlin didn’t seem to mind. “Gave us quite a fright it did, Pendragon here saw the socks and … well, we had a bad time of it for a bit there. But I think we’ll all be alright now. Right, Pendragon?” 

There wasn’t anything cruel in Greene’s tone, but Arthur could tell it was a bit of a warning about how he was clinging to Merlin. Arthur could barely bring himself to care, but he did take a step back so he could drink in the sight of Merlin, alive and well and whole. 

“Yeah.”

* 

Arthur made it through the rest of the day on the euphoria of Merlin being alive after all, but by the time night had fallen, the events of the day caught up with him. Merlin had to half drag him into their dugout, but once they were lying side by side, Arthur wasted no time insinuating himself into Merlin’s arms. 

Merlin had seemed mostly unruffled by the battle, so Arthur was surprised when it was him who squeezed Arthur in a crushing grip. 

“Merlin, Merlin,” Arthur murmured senselessly. His hands wandered to Merlin’s too-thin sides and rested there, feeling the soft rise and fall of his breath behind his ribs. 

“I’m right here, love. I’m right here.” 

At the sound of the endearment, Arthur’s hands gripped at the rough fabric of Merlin’s uniform, and he felt the swell of a sob rise in his throat unbidden. Merlin continued to squeeze his shoulders as Arthur shook silently against him, and Arthur was sure he felt the brush of chapped lips against his temple. 

Suddenly, he was struck with the realization that Merlin could have died today and this all would have been over. The careful, unspoken thing between them would have stayed unspoken forever, and all at once the thought was unbearable to him. 

He pulled back from Merlin in the dark and fumbled forward, uncertain whether he was being brave or just plain foolish. But he could no longer stand the thought of Merlin no knowing exactly what he was to him. 

The moment their lips finally connected in the near dark was so electric that Arthur felt his whole body jolt. Then Merlin tilted his head with a small sigh, and everything became soft and unbearably sweet. For the first time since Merlin had come to France, Arthur felt safe and at peace. He knew it was all an illusion, that even as they kissed in the dark that men were dying alone quite nearby. But he sank into the feeling, understanding clearly for the first time that love was the only thing that made the world worth fighting for. 

“Arthur?” Merlin asked, breaking off for a moment to peer at him questioningly. “Are you alright?” 

Arthur studied what he could see of Merlin’s face — his long lashes, clear blue eyes, pale skin almost luminescent in the dim light. 

“Yes,” he said simply, catching up Merlin’s hand and pressing it to his lips. “And as long as you’re with me, I always will be.” 


End file.
